


entr'acte

by sacrr



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Encounters on Public Transportation, Explicit Language, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Gotham City - Freeform, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Post-Under the Red Hood, Tim Drake is Robin, preboot fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrr/pseuds/sacrr
Summary: Gotham Gazette, ‘Daily Horoscope’: Fine weather brings new opportunities. An unexpected meeting yields surprising results.





	entr'acte

 

 

 

**entr’acte, n.: a dance, piece of music, or interlude performed between two acts of a play.**

 

 

 

Saturday dawns with a deluge of sunshine that appears, to the average Gothamite, suspicious. Good things don’t come to this city and, if they do, they don’t stay long.

“Kids asked if we could go to the park earlier,” Jason hears the guy three seats down on the subway mutter to his friend, sat opposite. “ _Seriously_.”

A fleeting glance to the left, from his chosen seat at the end of the aisle – maximum maneuverability and fastest exit route in the event of unforeseen combat, another golden nugget of Bat-Wisdom. Gotham Knights jersey, thick stripes of yellow and black paint daubed under each eye and the subway doors just closed on West and Carnegie, brakes easing off, that means five – no, four – stops til the football stadium, where the playoff game against the Star City Reds kicks off at one-fifteen. Not exactly Batman-level detective work but  _remember, lad, such tiny, everyday mysteries are the mind’s perfect whetstone_. One more lecture he can't seem to unhear, yet another subconscious thought process that isn’t  _quite_ his own.

“Just wish they’d all _stop_.” Across the aisle, the friend heaves a sigh: heartfelt, hopeless. He isn’t referring to the kids.

That same park had been doused in laughing gas by the Joker a few years back, one eerily similar summer morning. Although the cops had swiftly established a perimeter, and Batman soon appeared with a shiny new antidote, the grass still grows in neon purple tufts and when the wind blows to the west the air smells sweet and tacky, like cotton candy. No one goes to the park.

Good old Bruce. Still can't offer long-term solutions to long-term problems.

Ten minutes later the carriage is sweltering hot and teeming with passengers, mainly businesspeople and locals. Gotham isn’t exactly a tourist trap. Jason soon surrenders his seat to a woman holding a baby and secures a prime standing spot by an overhead vent, its lukewarm, dusty breeze somewhat diluting the rising stench of musty fabric, dead air and sweat. As the train speeds towards the financial district he catches a split-second glimpse of a bricked-up doorway set into the tunnel wall, momentarily illuminated by the passing carriage, and an old memory stirs. One time, they’d tracked Scarecrow to one of the disused tunnels that branched off from North Central. Him and Bruce, in the old days, forging a path through dust and dark and toxin. It’s a happy memory. Maybe that’s the most fucked up thing of all.

God, he sounds like a bitter ex.

By the time they reach North Central, the bustling hub of the financial district, there’s only enough room for one person to board. He weaves through the carriage and grabs the rail next to Jason, his face, partially obscured by the peak of a Knights cap, angled downwards – so anxious about being recognized that he’s barely paying attention to where he is. Besides, it’s not like he’s expecting to encounter a threat on a sunny Saturday morning.

Jason recognizes him before he’s even boarded the train. Tracking someone’s movements incessantly for three months will do that, even though almost a year has passed since then. He’s not proud of it.

Tim Drake glances up, catches his eye. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Jason?” he says,  _loud_ , and so astonished that several passengers crane their necks to look. There’s a large black leather case hanging from a strap around his neck.

On a normal day, Jason would move to a different spot, another carriage. Or he’d get off the train at the next station, endure the half-hour wait. But he has  _plans_ , dammit, and he’s already way behind schedule. This playoff game has delayed every subway line south of the Bowery.

He nods, hoping his expression and lack of verbal response remind Tim that, to the outside world, they are  _complete strangers who have never met._ Then, because people are still staring, “Um, good weather. Sun.” He blindly waves a hand towards the nearest window, a Plexiglass square set into the door – they’re above ground again, on a section of elevated track. Their audience quickly loses interest.

“Yes!” stammers Tim, his voice still amplified by shock but polite, well-modulated. Jason recognizes a Gala Voice when he hears one, a skill all of Bruce Wayne’s adoptees perfected in turn. Looks like courtesy is Tim’s go-to in unpleasant social interactions. Jason’s had been biting sarcasm or, in desperate times, dropping a glass. “They said on TV, heatwave, hundred and... And you’re good? Still, still –?”

“Breathing?” Kneejerk – there’s no need to keep this thing going beyond basic pleasantries. His stomach’s twisting unpleasantly in a way he wants to attribute to anxiety or anger, but he knows damn well it’s guilt.

“Here _._  Still in Gotham. I mean, we thought you were, but…” Tim trails off. He’s grown his hair out in the ten months since they met, still parted in the middle but long at the sides and back. There’s a fraying black backpack leant between his feet, the front pocket covered in colorful, sewn-on patches. Designer business suits have been ditched for faded jeans and a tattered gray sweatshirt that Jason recognizes as kit for the Gotham Academy junior track team:  _Go Griffins!_   Simultaneously repping two different sports teams seems like a faux-pas, but Tim is either oblivious or indifferent. He adjusts the cap and frowns up at Jason – and he means  _up_ , there’s a clear foot of vertical space between them.

“No, I emigrated to Europe last week,” Jason retorts, sardonic, needlessly antagonistic, and the twist in his gut tightens. He angles himself towards the window and stares out at the view. Tim watches him carefully, keeps quiet.

They’re sailing between the cluster of skyscrapers that make up the city’s financial quarter, Wayne Tower planted at the center, tallest and shiniest and smuggest of all. Bruce will be up in his office, working on figures. It might be a Saturday but the Wayne Enterprises corporate calendar was tacked up in the kitchen of the Manor for five years of Jason’s life, right next to his school schedule, and Monday is the annual shareholders meeting. Not that Bruce needs to be nervous. According to the  _Herald_ , profits are at a record high.

Good old Bruce.

There’s no air, no space to breathe. His chest clamps tight like he’s underground again, buried, suffocating on soil and  _God,_ he should have stayed at home.

“Are you OK?” The words sound distorted, wavering, like he’s on the wrong side of aquarium glass, like his ears are blocked with water. His head spins. “Jason?”

A stray beam of sunshine glints off the silver spire of Wayne Tower and winks down at him. Jason grits his teeth, inhales shakily.

 “I’m fine,” he mutters at last. Then, softly, and laced with all the rage and bitterness that he hates,  _hates_  that he still feels: “So you can report that back to Bruce.”

“What’s that?” Tim asks, bemused. His fingers are hooked over an overhead rail, one that, if the soles of his shoes were half an inch thinner, he’d have to stand on tiptoes to reach (Jason, meanwhile, is getting a crick in his neck from keeping his head from hitting the emergency alarm above the door). There’s a plastic guard strapped round Tim’s wrist, too thin and cheap to offer protection in a fight.

It’s a fight Jason’s dangerously close to starting, daylight and civilians or no. “You heard. What, you expect me to believe Bruce didn’t order you to keep tabs on me? You and your family won't leave me the  _fuck_  alone!”

Tim’s eyes flare, his jaw sets angrily and he points a forefinger inches from Jason’s face, towards the juncture where chin meets neck. Jason backs off a little: so  _that’s_ why he picked you. He hisses, “OK, one: I don’t take orders from Bru –  _B,_ and if you used to, that’s your damn problem.” The train hits a bump in the track, and they both jolt in place. “Two, I have a  _life_ which I’m sure as hell not wasting by following you around. Why should I? Because you’re such a great conversationalist?” As a final barb, “And it’s your family too. Like it or not.” He settles back into his original stance, glances around to gauge how much attention they’ve attracted (relatively little, considering) and takes a deep, calming breath, staring fixedly at the emergency evacuation instructions nailed to the wall over Jason’s shoulder. They’ve nearly arrived at Midtown.

Ouch.

Jason’s done that before, mistaken his anger at Bruce for anger at Tim. Used Tim as a convenient proxy for his doubt of the mission, his resentment of Bruce, his grief at being replaced.

He’d fought Tim, when he came back to Gotham, and won, and hurt him. Badly, there was no way he was fully healed yet. They hadn’t seen each other since. But here Tim was, in an enclosed capsule with a virtual stranger who’d nearly killed him a few months ago, not only keeping his composure but telling said stranger, with careful eloquence, to fuck off. That’s… impressive, by any stretch.

Jason considers. He shifts uncomfortably, nearly knocking the stupid alarm by accident. There are a few seconds of relative quiet: indistinct voices in soft conversation, muffled music from a nearby set of headphones, the distant screech of brakes as the carriage begins to slow. Another train on a neighbouring track suddenly surges past, bound for North Central, with a thunderous roar of buffeted air.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t’ve… said that.” Tim looks around and stares like Jason’s just sprouted a second head. “What?” he asks, immediately defensive. “I can admit when I’m wrong, I’m not  _Bruce_.”

Tim reluctantly smiles at that. “They said the Pit might’ve had an effect,” he says, more gently. “On how you think. Paranoia, violent tendencies.”

“It did for a while,” Jason admits. He’s not entirely sure why he’s telling the truth. “Still does, maybe, I don’t know. But I made mistakes when I came back here. I’d be lying if I said the Pit was behind all of them.” He looks Tim dead in the eye. “Doesn’t mean they weren’t mistakes.”

“Hmmm.” Tim’s still looking contemplative when the other set of metal doors glide open. Midtown’s a popular station, right at the heart of Gotham’s thriving retail sector, and by the time the train’s cleared out there are only a handful of people left in their carriage which, mercifully, is starting to cool down. After this the route travels away from central Gotham, towards the suburbs and parks.

Jason tilts his head questioningly. He’d assumed Tim was getting out; the Palisades were on a different line which intersected here. “You’re not –”

“No,” says Tim. He takes the seat that was originally Jason’s, at the end of the aisle, and nods to the space beside him. Jason obliges but leaves an empty seat between them, not to be petty, but because he values his personal space. He’s well over six feet tall and wider than Bruce in the shoulders, subway seats were not designed with guys like him in mind. He gestures towards the leather case around Tim’s neck. “What’s that?”

“New camera,” Tim replies. “It was my birthday last week. I’m still testing it out, today’s the nature reserve.”

“Ah,” says Jason. Then, to fill the uncomfortable silence that’s threatening to fall, “How was it? Your birthday?”

“It was nice.” Tim replies, brightening a little. “Cassie organized a party at the Tower.” Another insecurity of Jason’s that Tim effortlessly irritates: he’s popular. Beloved.  _Valued._ He’d deliberately not mentioned who gave him the camera but that case looks like finest Italian leather, and Jason’s a long way from stupid.

Speaking of Bruce. “Shouldn’t you be at the office? Monday’s the –”

“The shareholders meeting, I know.” Tim’s smile fades and he leans forward in his seat, folding his fingers together. Seeing him in profile, Jason’s struck by the realization of just how young he is and, beneath the requisite muscle, how thin. His nose and cheekbones are prominent, skin clammy and pale, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. He looks exhausted, stressed in a way no seventeen-year-old should be. “Between school, and all the responsibilities I’m taking on at Wayne Enterprises and everything else…” He gives Jason a significant look. “It’s a  _lot_. Some days I need a few hours to myself.”

“Why tell me?” Jason asks. He can't help it. The train grinds to a halt again, and a few more people disembark.

Tim shoots him a bitter smile. There’s a thin white scar at the side of his neck, perfectly horizontal, barely visible. Jason knows that scar. “Because there’s no way anyone in the family will hear about it. This is the most off-the-radar I’ve been in  _years_.”

Jason chuckles quietly, kicks back in his seat. “Guess that’s fair.”

“How about you?”

“Figure it out yourself. I thought tiny, everyday mysteries were the mind’s perfect whetstone.” He gives a satisfied smirk at Tim’s expression, suspicions confirmed. “Good to know he’s recycling the same old bullshit.”

The landscape is gradually evolving into a tired-looking suburbia: towering apartment complexes, terraced homes with missing roof-tiles and gleaming windows. They’re deep in Jason’s territory, the one he threatened Bruce at gunpoint eight months ago to claim. This’ll be the first time an associate of Batman’s entered it since, mask or no, to his certain knowledge.

And he’s being an asshole, again.

“Interviewing a witness, out in the sticks. Says he’s got information on those bank robberies last week but he’s panicky, won't meet me in the city.” Tim’s turned towards him in his seat, one arm leant on the rail, listening attentively. “And later the community theatre’s rehearsing  _The Winter’s Tale_  and I said I’d help out.”

“I think we studied problem comedies last year. Failed that class, though.”

Jason stares at him. “I thought you were some kind of genius?”

Tim rolls his eyes, irritated, and the hand on the rail tightens its grip. It’s not a show of annoyance, more an attempt to contain it. “You know, I can't do everything. I can't fix every problem or pass every test. Despite what everyone seems to think.”

There are issues there, painful, deep-rooted, it’s obvious: but now’s not the right time, and he is definitely not the right audience. Jason forges ahead. “I met the director on a job last month, he needed somebody to help out with stage design. All voluntary, opening night’s two weeks on Friday.”

“What about,” Tim frowns, then snaps his fingers. There’s something endearing yet performative about the gesture and it takes Jason half a second to place it. Textbook Dick Grayson. “Registration costs? I thought the mayor’s office –”

“Wayne-funded, like everything in this damn city. So, in some sick way, I’m still living on his dime.” Then, on impulse, “Does it never – does he not –” His hands gesture in a way that’s caught between strangling someone and flipping them off, but the words catch in his throat.

Tim ducks his head, starts picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his sweatshirt. “Yes,” he says eventually. “Of course he does.”

“Then why –”

“Because even if he’s flawed, and his vision of Gotham is broken, he’s working towards a future where good people can build something better than any of us can,” Tim says. “He might be so far gone that he’s forgotten about peace-time, I don’t know. But maybe one day we can help him step back and think ahead and this city might get to a point where it can fix itself. That’s what Robin’s for.” He shrugs. “At least, that’s what I believe.”

“Shit,” says Jason, only half-joking. “Did you rehearse that?”

Tim observes him appraisingly, with a depth of perception and analysis that’s usually locked tight behind a cowl, and Jason is instantly self-conscious – unwashed jeans, hastily combed hair, red T-shirt (robin-red _,_  he realizes with a sickening lurch) fresh from the laundromat. There’s two days of stubble lining his chin. It’s like being in a room with Bruce, feeling all of his flaws rise to the surface like pond slime.

Jason’s about to tell him to cut it the fuck out when Tim says, “You can still do good, Jason.”

A group of first-graders in school uniform, fellow travelers to the nature reserve, board the train before Jason can even begin to  _process_  that, let alone reply. They take up a row on their own, knelt on the seats, feet dangling behind them, pointing out the window and giggling amongst themselves. Their teacher stands at the far end of the carriage, good-humoredly telling them to quiet down.

Jason finally murmurs, “I  _am,_ ” but his voice cracks right down the middle – insecure, rather than emphatic.

Tim’s expression stays serious. “Dick told me you gave up crime, but not the hood,” he says lowly. “True?”

“True,” Jason acknowledges. “Donated the money. Now I’m… what did you say? ‘Helping the city fix itself’?”

“You can’t build anything sustainable out of killing people, Jason. The mob proved that.”

“Can’t do it by letting them live either,” Jason counters. “Your boss proved that.”

Tim just sighs and, to Jason’s relief, lets the subject drop. The track elevates again over a tributary of the Gotham river and the kids cluster round the windows, their arms stretched out to shoulder-height like wings. One corner of Tim’s mouth curls upwards and he tilts his head sideways, towards Jason. He says, so quiet his lips barely move, “It’s weird to think, this is as close as most people get.” To flying _,_ he means. Riding the L train, driving across a suspension bridge, catching a plane.

Jason stares down at his outstretched feet, the sloppily-tied knots lacing his boots. “’S better with the cape,” he murmurs back. “Now grappling’s just… transport.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” says Tim, unsmiling, and Jason scoffs, says, “I think Clark’s got a monopoly on red capes. Not sure he’d appreciate competition.”

“Look!” one of the first-graders interrupts, arms still stretched out behind her. Her friends watching, she leans from knee to knee, left to right in her seat, the famous Gotham skyline a murky silhouette in the distance. “I’m Batman!”

“Aw, I want to be Batman,” one of her friends complains, and she replies cheerily, “Don’t worry, you can be Robin. He’s almost cool!”

Jason has to bite down on his lower lip, hard, to stop himself bursting out laughing. To his right, Tim’s shoulders are silently shaking with mirth. The old Robin-urge arises to whisper a snide comment, crack a joke, but it wouldn’t take much for one of them to accidentally open old wounds and they’re still a very long way from being friends. It’s a nice moment – sky’s blue, birds are singing and he’s actually smiling for the first time in what feels like months. He doesn’t want to ruin it with  _context._

After a minute or two of companionable silence, Tim notices the guard on his wrist and starts unfastening it. “I boarded to the office this morning,” he says in answer to Jason’s questioning look, and shoves the guard into his unzipped backpack. There’s a skateboard neatly packed inside, covered in brightly colored, peeling stickers. “And then from there to North Central. It’s easier for short journeys, more economical. Portable, too.”

“Bullshit.” Across the carriage, the teacher gives him a disapproving look, and he recalculates. “You're kidding _._ How many layers are you  _hiding_?”

“About as many as you, I reckon,” Tim concedes, then he tips back his head and yawns, suddenly, so hard his jaw cracks. “ _Wow,_ I need sleep.”

“Dent?”

“Worse. AP Economics paper.”

Jason’s about to ask if Tim’s joking or not when the announcement for the next station chimes. “Sh…  _sugar,_ that’s me.” He gets to his feet, joints stiff (last night’s patrol was a long one), and walks over to the door.

He raises a hand in farewell, suddenly awkward. “See you around, I guess.”

There’s a pause, long enough to feel significant, before Tim replies. “Stay safe, Jason.”

Brakes hiss as the train rolls into the station. Jason looks back. “You won't –”

“Not a word,” says Tim. He looks resigned. “Don’t think they’d believe me if I did. But they’d appreciate it if you checked in once in a while. Barbara and Dick, at least. They think you’ll come home one day, I can tell.”

“And you?” He’s not sure why he asks, it’s not like he has any  _intention_  – but there’s the guilt, again.

Tim holds his gaze, steady, as the metal doors slide open. “I’m a detective, Jason. I like to think I see things as they are.”

That parting comment, more than any other, hits its mark. It’s still running on loop inside Jason’s head long after he’s stepped off the train, and his pace quickens as he approaches the station exit. Reality calls: he’s got an informant to question, a rehearsal to attend, a kingpin to topple. He needs to figure out how he’s going to reanimate a statue live on stage, not to mention the fucking  _bear._

Back to work. Time to focus.

But he can't stop himself from glancing over his shoulder, just once, as the train slowly glides away from the platform, burnished gold by the late-morning sun.


End file.
